Deception
by Rogue Tomato
Summary: When Mike runs an errand to correct a mistake, he finds himself in more trouble than when he first started.
1. Chapter 1

_a/n: A big thank-you to Sockie1000 and Cokie316 - the dynamic duo of betas. _

_Disclaimer: I do not own Suits._

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

"What the hell happened?"

"C'mon, Harvey, I said I was sorry."

Mike carefully closed the door behind him as he crossed the threshold into Harvey's office. Initially he thought that what he'd done hadn't been that big of a deal, but Harvey's words of _naïve, easily intimidated_, and _rookie mistake_ had him second-guessing his actions.

"Sorry doesn't get those files back," Harvey growled from where he was seated behind his desk. "Sorry doesn't help me prevent the shit from hitting the fan in court tomorrow. And being sorry certainly does nothing to improve my mood. You had one job. _One _job: get Mr. Carrow to sign the documents. So tell me what the hell happened!"

Mike sighed heavily as he shoved his hands in his pockets. "I went to the house. Mr. Carrow was about to sign the paperwork when his man servant interrupted."

"His _man servant_?"

"His butler. Whatever," Mike took one hand out to wave away Harvey's question before continuing. "We were in his study, the butler came in, and then Mr. Carrow left for a minute. A few minutes later, he came back and told me I had to leave. While pushing me out the door, the giant butler said that he would make sure that Mr. Carrow finished the paperwork and brought it to the hearing tomorrow."

Harvey slowly stood, eyeing his associate carefully. "So let me get this straight," he began, walking around his desk until he was face-to-face with Mike. "You left our office with the Rescission and Release Agreement in hand."

"Yes."

"And you took this paperwork to Mr. Carrrow's house, correct?"

"Yes."

"And you left it with his butler?"

"He manhandled me!"

"A butler who has served, _not_ the Carrow family, but the MacMillon family for over eighteen years."

A pause. "Yes, but Harvey..."

"The MacMillon family, spearheaded by their lovely daughter, Marjorie, our client's soon-to-be ex-wife."

"Harvey, I know, but if you'd…"

"And you decided that, since Mr. Carrow was distracted, you'd leave the documents - our damn _playbook_ - with the one man in the entire household who is loyal to the one person who would _not_ benefit from this deal?"

Harvey shouted as he watched the annoyance in Mike's eyes disappear, only to be replaced by a look of understanding.

"Oh."

"Yes, 'oh,'" Harvey mimicked as he buttoned his suit jacket and turned away from Mike, moving back toward his desk. "Go back."

"Back?"

"Yes, back to Carrow's house. Talk to the client. Talk to Jerry."

"Wait, who's Jerry?"

"The _man servant._"

"Oh. He gives me the creeps."

Harvey flashed him an _are you done?_ look before continuing. "Regardless, I want those papers signed and in hand tonight. Fix this."

Mike sighed, resigned. "I'll fix it."

"You'd better."

"I will," he repeated, his innate need to get in the final word overriding his common sense to get out of the office, and away from an irritated Harvey, as soon as possible. He snatched up his messenger bag and flung it over his shoulder, halfway out the door before Harvey spoke again.

"Oh, and Mike?"

He turned to see a look on Harvey that he was sure he'd never seen before.

"Marjorie is devious. The whole MacMillon clan is. Carrow wants out, and it doesn't make sense that he'd have you leave on the eve of getting this deal done. So be careful."

Mike smirked. "Don't worry about me. I'll get the files back."

"Who said I was worried about you?" Harvey retorted. "Something smells bad about this whole situation, and I don't want it ruining my mojo for tomorrow. Get it done."

"Your mojo? Who are you, Austin Powers?"

"Go!"

"I'm going!" Mike smiled, saluted his mentor, and was out the door.

* * *

Calling the Carrow-family home simply a _house_ wasn't entirely accurate. _Mansion_ was a better description. The $26 million townhome sat nestled between similar dwellings that were common on the Upper East Side. Maybe Harvey was right, he thought. Mike was a bit outside his comfort zone when he found himself face-to-face with billionaires and their fast cars, expensive clothes, and lifestyles of the rich and famous. Perhaps he was a little intimidated, and that had led him to leave sensitive information which, if in the wrong hands, could lead to devastating consequences for the client.

Willing himself to quash those feelings, Mike leaned his bike up against one of the trees that lined the street in front of the home, earning himself a strange look from a neighbor poking her head out of her front door. After straightening his tie, adjusting the messenger bag slung across his back, and nervously spreading his hands down his suit-jacket to iron out any wrinkles, he jogged up the stairs and knocked on the door. It wasn't long before the butler loomed in front of him, a scowl on his face.

"Sorry to bother you again. But it turns out I need that paperwork tonight, not tomorrow." Mike waited, but the man didn't move an inch, so he stammered on. "If I could just get it from Mr. Carrow, that would be great."

Just as Mike was beginning to worry that he'd be forced to go back to the office empty-handed, the butler stepped aside.

"In the study," he directed, and Mike nodded his thanks.

He made his way down the hall toward the half-closed door to the study, opening it fully to reveal the empty room. Throwing a quick glance over his shoulder, Mike stepped into the room and swiftly made his way over to the large mahogany desk that flanked the left wall. The desk itself was tidy, and it didn't take long for him to realize that the paperwork was not there.

Turning to leave, a small sound from the opposite side of the room had Mike whirling around to find Marjorie Carrow eyeing him carefully, her presence undetected until now.

"Mrs. Carrow," Mike started, trying, and failing, to hide the surprise in his voice. "I'm sorry, I didn't expect…"

"To be caught snooping in my husband's study?"

"Actually, what I was going to say was that I didn't expect to see you here. I was looking for your ex-husband."

"The divorce isn't final," she bit back.

Mike cleared his throat nervously as the woman in front him smiled, though it did not reach her eyes. She was petite, despite the high heels she was wearing, and her fiery red hair deeply contrasted with her bright blue, calculating eyes that were fixed on Mike's face.

"You're Charles' lawyer, yes?" Mike nodded in response, not thinking it important to correct her. "And you are here for these, I assume?" She held up a manila folder which Mike was certain held the legal documents that outlined Mr. Carrow's plan to cut his ex-wife out of his company's profits.

"Yeah, about that…" Mike began, and the smile fell away from Marjorie's face as he instinctively took a step toward the paperwork she grasped tightly in her hands. "I'm really sorry, Mrs. Carrow. I didn't mean to, uh… what I mean is that earlier I should have waited…"

"You didn't mean to what, exactly?" She asked coldly. "Have me find out that my husband is trying to screw me out of what I'm due? Warn me that I am about to lose everything that I've helped my husband build?" Her voice rose with each question, and Mike could see the flush of red creep up her neck as her anger grew. Her grip on the folder had tightened so much that her knuckles began to turn white.

Several moments passed as Mike held his breath, silently wishing Mr. Carrow would barge in and save him from the tangible tense awkwardness that hung in the air.

"Mrs. Carrow, I…"

She waved a hand in the air to cut him off. "Please, call me Marjorie." Mike was surprised by the sudden change in her demeanor. The fury had instantly been replaced by a gentleness he previously wouldn't have guessed the woman capable of. "I'm sorry. As you can imagine, the news of my husband's plan for me was shocking. But, it's not your fault that my husband is a bastard. I shouldn't have lost my temper like that."

She closed her eyes and sighed, taking a few deep breaths. When she re-opened them and fixed a watery gaze on Mike, he could tell she was visibly shaken.

"Don't get me wrong, I knew the divorce would be ugly." Her voice quivered slightly as a single tear streaked down her face. "I just didn't think he'd be so… so… brutal."

"I uh…" Mike stumbled, unsure how to handle the new demeanor of the woman in front of him.

He couldn't help but be moved by her show of emotion. Mike was very aware of what was outlined in the paperwork she held in her hand. Her father, Arthur MacMillon, had started Mac Enterprises when he was only 22 years old. Arthur, a brilliant businessman but also a blatant sexist, never believed that a woman could run his company. And so, upon his death, left the business to his son, Arthur, Jr., and his son-in-law, Charles Carrow. Through a shrewd business move, Charles had retained sole executive powers five years ago.

But Mike also knew of Marjorie's role in the growing company. A brilliant entrepreneur in her own right, she was responsible for much of the company's success, though she received little public recognition for it. Through it all, however, she had stood by her husband and his role as the company's CEO. It wasn't surprising, then, to find that she was unhappy about the arrangements her husband… soon to be ex-husband, was making behind her back. Harvey would tell Mike he was being overly-emotional. After all, Charles was their client, not Marjorie. But that didn't mean that Mike didn't feel sorry for her.

"Look at me," she said, dabbing at her eyes. "I'm a wreck. You're probably enjoying this, though. Watching your client's wife… ex-wife, I guess… fall apart."

"Of course not," Mike countered quickly.

"Oh really?" she asked skeptically. "The way my husband described you, I figured you were cutthroat and ruthless. I assumed you and he would be out enjoying a drink, toasting your imminent victory."

"Your husband's lawyer is actually my boss, Harvey Specter," Mike corrected her. "I'm Mike Ross… his associate."

"Ah," she replied, carefully wiping the tears from her eyes. "Well, my husband is enjoying all of this; I can assure you of that." She sniffled again and offered him another smile. "I'm really sorry about earlier. I could really use a drink. Would you like one?"

"No, I can't. I really need to get back to the office with Mr. Carrow's papers," Mike said as he pointed at the files still in her hands. "So, if he could just sign them, I'll just-"

"Please? Just one. I don't want to drink alone," she interrupted with a meek voice. "We can toast my unhappiness and ultimate demise." She flashed a smile, and Mike smiled nervously back.

"Uh, sure. I guess one drink would be okay."

There was a moment filled with unnatural silence before Marjorie called out for the butler (Mike learned his name was Gerald,_ not_ Jerry). He came in a moment later, and after Marjorie made her request for some drinks, he silently left, but not before glancing at Mike with a sour look.

"Do you know what my husband's family does for a living?" Marjorie asked casually while they waited for the drinks.

"They own a winery," Mike answered, having complete knowledge of both Charles and Marjorie's family backgrounds.

"Hmm, yes, they do," she confirmed. "If there is one thing I hate more than my husband, Mike, it's that damn wine." She laughed. "You know, the original floor plan of this house included a wine cellar. But I knew if I let Charles have his way, he'd stock that thing to the brim with that horrible wine. I'd have been forced to serve it at every social function, and that was _not_ something I was willing to do."

Gerald returned, carrying a tray with a single flask and two glasses. He left without a word.

"When my husband was away on one of his business trips to Columbia," Marjorie continued as she poured the amber liquid, "I had the main level of the house completely remodeled. I had our kitchen moved so it was situated right above that cellar, making it next-to-impossible to access. Charles never even had a chance to put a single bottle inside."

Another moment or two of silence passed before she passed a glass to Mike.

"How about a toast?" she said, a sad smile on her face. "_Acceptance of what has happened is the first step to overcoming the consequences of any misfortune."_

"William James."

"You know your philosophers," she said softly before dipping her glass toward him. "Cheers."

Mike tipped his glass toward her a moment and drank, cringing as the liquid burned his throat. Coughing slightly, he set the glass down on the desk behind him.

"Mrs. Carrow… Marjorie… I really do need to get back to the office. If I could just have the paperwork…"

Marjorie studied Mike a moment before draining her own glass, softly setting it down next to his on the desk. She took her time eyeing him before she slowly nodded and handed over the manila folder.

Mike grasped the folder and promptly put it in his messenger bag. They exchanged a few more pleasantries before Marjorie slowly began leading him out of the study and down the hall toward the front door. Halfway out onto the pristine marble floor of the entryway, Mike unexpectedly swayed on his feet. He took a few more steps, but was forced to stop as everything around him began drifting in and out of focus. He brought a shaky hand up to his face, digging his palm into one eye, then the other, in an attempt to regain his equilibrium.

Just in front of him, Marjorie stopped and turned to look at him with curious eyes.

"Mike? Are you alright?" she asked, tentatively placing a hand on his arm.

"I, uh…" He couldn't speak. He couldn't think. In between the ripples of fog, he could barely make out Marjorie's face as she stared at him. "I n-need… some… air," he managed to say before taking one final step.

_Smack_. Mike felt his body slam into the ground immediately, felt the flash of pain in his head, but it took a moment for his brain to catch up to the information that the cause of his current pain had been the result of him losing control of his own body.

Between the haze and pain, the next several moments were a blur. The images Mike saw changed with each blink of his eyes, and he was barely aware enough to notice that just keeping his eyes open was becoming too much of a challenge.

_Blink_. A high-shrilled voice shouting out. High-heeled shoes stepped over his body.

_Blink_. Another pair of shoes swam into his vision. Shiny black loafers. Probing hands fished through his bag, his pockets, his jacket.

_Blink._ He was being carried. Fuzzy visions of doors and windows and lights blurred past him.

_Blink._ He tried to speak, tried to move, but failed at both.

_Blink._ Complete darkness.

He felt heavy, tired, and disoriented, but still he couldn't get his body to cooperate. Mike quickly lost his battle with consciousness, his final thought lingering on how quickly his evening had gone from bad, to worse.

_What the hell just happened?_


	2. Chapter 2

_a/n: A humble thank you to everyone who took the time to send me a review, and to those who are now following this story. On to chapter two!_

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO**

Harvey checked his watch again. He'd now spent over two hours looking for his associate. That, of course, was added to the three hours before that in which Harvey had waited, somewhat impatiently, for Mike's return.

But he hadn't returned. And now Harvey's evening had been composed of driving around the city, calling Mike's cell phone more times than he'd care to admit, and suppressing any hint of worry that even tried to make an appearance. Phone calls to the Carrow home (no answer), Mike's grandmother's place (the nurse explained that Edith was at movie night that evening), and even Rachel (she hadn't seen Mike since that morning) had all proven fruitless, and Harvey's gut was churning. It wasn't like Mike to just disappear. Even when he'd made a mistake, he always owned up to it, taking whatever punches Harvey decided to throw his way. He'd said that he was sorry about the documents and that he'd get them back. And Harvey had believed him.

So where was he?

Finally, Harvey had called Ray and together they made the quick drive over to 71st street and the location of the prestigious Carrow family home. Harvey couldn't help glancing around for Mike's bike as he stepped out of the town car, sighing when he came up empty. Hopping the steps two at a time, Harvey knocked and waited.

A man who would give the Addams family's Lurch a run for his money answered the door, wearing a thick blonde mustache and a slick black suit that smelled faintly of chlorine. Harvey took a step forward, fully expecting to be given access to the home, but was held up by a hand pressed against his chest.

"I'm sorry Mr. Specter, but it's late," the tall man stated calmly with a hint of annoyance. "Any business dealings you have with Mr. Carrow can wait until tomorrow."

Harvey took another step forward. "Look, Jerry…"

"It's Gerald," the man growled.

"You listen to me. I need-"

"Harvey?" Behind the menacing butler, Harvey could see Charles Carrow descending the grand stairway, his polished shoes clicking on the marble floor. "Harvey, what are you doing here? And at this hour?"

The butler took a hesitant step to the side, allowing Harvey to pass by, but not without a glare thrown in for good measure. Harvey and Charles shook hands briefly.

"Charles, I apologize for coming here so late. My associate, Mike Ross, was headed back here this evening to pick up the papers he'd left with you earlier this afternoon. What time did he leave?"

Mr. Carrow furrowed his brow for a moment. "What time did he leave? I'm sorry, Harvey, but Mike wasn't here."

Harvey unbuttoned his suit jacket and sighed, running a hand across his face. "So he never even arrived back here," he said quietly to himself, but Carrow reached out a hand and placed it on Harvey's forearm.

"Back here?" he asked, and then shook his head, dropping his hand back to his side. "Harvey, you misunderstand me. Your associate… Mike, did you say? He hasn't been here today at all. I don't think I've seen him since yesterday, in your office."

Harvey froze.

"What do you mean? He came here this afternoon. Delivered the Rescission and Release Agreement to you."

Carrow shook his head, his face showing a mixture of concern and pity. "No, he didn't. Now, I know you and I had discussed the possibility of a document, but nothing was ever finalized. I certainly never signed anything."

"Charles," Harvey said, his voice straining as he tried to keep it even and light, "what are you…?"

"Charles? What's going on?" Harvey spun around toward the voice, his gaze falling on Marjorie Carrow as she slowly descended the staircase to join them in the foyer. "Ah, Mr. Specter. What brings you here so late?"

"His associate, Mike Ross," Carrow answered for him, his eyes never leaving Harvey's. "He claims that he was sent here twice today."

"Well, I haven't seen him. Have you, Gerald?" Harvey ground his teeth as the tall man shook his head, a gleam in his eye. "And you, Charles? Have you had any visitors today?"

Harvey might have imagined it, but Carrow seemed to wither in his wife's presence. "Of course not, Marj." He laughed a little, but he couldn't hide the flash of panic in his eyes when he looked back at Harvey. "Isn't Mike the associate who showed up late to our meeting yesterday? And then misplaced his phone? It seems to me that you have your hands full with that young man. He must have gotten mixed up with what he told you he was doing this evening."

"Well, there you have it, Mr. Specter," Mrs. Carrow said, her voice dripping with sweetness. "Now, I know that you represent my husband, and that you've given him all sorts of ideas on how to run his company without me, but we've talked it over."

Harvey looked levelly from Charles, over to Marjorie, and back again. "You talked it over," he repeated dully.

"Yes."

An uncomfortable silence settled around them as Harvey's eyes drilled into his client's.

"She's blackmailing you, isn't she." It was more of a statement than a question, as realization over Carrow's odd behavior clicked into place. "You've wanted this agreement in place ever since you filed for divorce. It's all you've talked about for months. And now, the night before we go to court, you decide to back out? What does she have on you?"

Carrow chewed on the inside of his cheek a moment and shook his head. "You have it all wrong, Harvey."

"My husband and I decided that no one would benefit if these proceedings went forward." Marjorie walked over so she was standing directly next to her husband. "So it's actually a good thing that he never received that paperwork."

Harvey narrowed his eyes. "Is that what this is all about?" he demanded, one hand waving through the air in the small space between himself and the two objects of his anger. "You acting as though these files don't exist so the settlement doesn't go through? You've got to be out of your damn minds! I'll just get another one drawn up!"

"But without my husband's signature, it would mean nothing, Mr. Specter."

"We'll testify in court," Harvey spat back.

"You and who else, Mr. Specter?" Mrs. Carrow asked, a smile tugging at her lips. "The way I see it, right now you are very much alone. You say you sent your associate here? Well, we say otherwise. There is no paperwork. There is no agreement. It's your word against ours, and I think we'll take those odds."

Gerald, a presence hard to ignore under any circumstance, suddenly loomed directly behind Harvey, and now, along with chlorine, Harvey could smell his rank body odor. Harvey got the message of intimidation that the Carrows were trying to send, and he had a sudden appreciation of what Mike had said earlier about the butler giving him the creeps.

_Mike_.

"Where is he?"

Carrow's eyebrows shot up. "Who?"

"Mike Ross. My associate you _claim_ to not have seen today." Carrow began to shake his head again, and Harvey resisted the urge to grab him by the shirt or punch him in the face. "What have you done?"

"Harvey!" Carrow exclaimed, taking a surprised step back. "Just what are you accusing me of? You honestly think me capable of… what, exactly? Kidnapping? Murder?"

Harvey's breath hitched at that final word. _Murder_? Actually that thought had never once crossed his mind. And now, with the idea sprung out there, it's all Harvey could think about. Like a bright, flashing neon sign, it wouldn't let him escape the horrible realization that he had no idea what had happened to Mike, and it made him feel a little sick.

"Charles, you've been my client for five years," Harvey began as he took a deep breath, tugged at his suit jacket, and then continued. "I _know_ you. I know how you manipulated your brother-in-law into handing over his redeemable shares so you could stand by and watch as his profits slowly bled to death. I know about your _business_ trip to Columbia and how you returned to the United States with enough money to purchase this dream home."

By now Harvey was inches away from Carrow's face, and he lowered his voice to just above a whisper.

"And I also know about Maria, Isabel, and Carmen. And I'm not talking about Spanish ships, by the way," he tossed flippantly toward Mrs. Carrow, watching her face pale as he spoke. "Which one of those lovely ladies are you blackmailing him about, I wonder?" Harvey narrowed his eyes as he continued to glare at the woman. "Or was it someone else? There were so many. But like Charles said, I do seem to have a hard time with _younger_ individuals."

Harvey turned his attention once again to Charles Carrow, whose own anger was close to the surface. "So yes, Charles. I know _exactly_ what you are capable of," Harvey finished. "Where. Is. He?"

"That's enough!" Mrs. Carrow yelled, her maniacal voice booming in the large room. Behind Harvey, Gerald placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. "You've overstayed your welcome, Mr. Specter. Leave. Now."

It was as if a loud buzzer went off signaling that playtime was over. The Carrows meant business. Harvey would have to back-off, compose himself, and figure out what the hell was going on. Harvey shrugged Gerald's hand away and backed off, putting his hands up placidly in front of him.

"You're right, Charles, of course. Mike must have been mistaken about the paperwork. And who it was for. _And_ where he was going." Fixing the Carrows with one final glare, Harvey turned around and headed out the door, barely across the threshold before it was slammed shut behind him.

Ray was already outside the car, heading over to open the door for Harvey, but he shook his head, holding up a hand to stop him. Harvey took his time buttoning his suit jacket before calmly turning back toward the door. Instead of knocking, he leaned slightly to the right, peering through a window to reveal the scene inside.

Though Harvey could not hear what was being said, it wasn't hard to figure it out. Marjorie Carrow screamed at her husband, who took it and threw it right back. The couple gestured wildly at one another for a few moments before Gerald forcefully stepped between them, effectively ending the argument. While Charles disappeared down a hallway to the right, Marjorie slowly ascended the stairs, but not before suddenly turning around to throw one final insult toward her husband. That, by chance, had her gaze sweeping across the entryway, and her eyes fell upon Harvey's. He quickly pulled away from the window and finally walked down the stairs toward the car, where Ray promptly opened the rear door. Harvey paused before getting in, spinning around to look contemplatively at the home in front of him.

"No Mr. Ross, I take it?" Ray asked to his left.

"No," Harvey responded irritably, his anger barely held in check. "No Mr. Ross."

"Should we call the police?"

"I don't think they'd do anything just yet. He's an adult, and he hasn't been missing for that long." Harvey sighed and shook his head as he watched an older woman, the Carrow's neighbor, exit her home and march right over to the Carrow's door, knocking loudly. As Harvey watched, he continued, "Besides, they'll need probable cause to search the Carrow's home, and I don't have any actual proof that Mike was even here."

Unsurprisingly, Gerald opened the front door, spoke to the woman briefly, and then slammed the door in her face. She huffed, but stalked back down the stairs.

"Yet."

"What?" Ray asked, confused.

"No proof _yet._" Harvey clarified as he pushed away from the car and walked briskly to intercept the woman. "Excuse me!"

The woman stopped and turned, looking Harvey up and down before smiling. "Yes?"

"I'm Harvey Specter. I represent Charles Carrow."

"Oh really?" she asked, a single eyebrow peaking. "Well, as his lawyer, maybe you can tell him and his slutty wife to stop waking the entire neighborhood with their arguing! We do share wall space, as they seem to forget every damn night!"

"Not that kind of lawyer, I'm afraid," Harvey replied. "Do you know the Carrow family well?"

The woman took a cigarette out of her back pocket, taking a moment to light it up before responding to Harvey.

"Not really. Just as much as I know my other neighbors, I suppose." She leaned forward then, as if letting Harvey in on a little secret. "But let me tell you, even with their constant bickering, they're better than old Mr. Willow there," she said, pointing to the other home she was adjacent to. "He sure is a grumpy ol' git."

She paused to take a long drag on her cigarette.

"I feel I'm in my right mind to head over to the Carrow's and complain about their noise. But Mr. Willow," she said, her hands flapping wildly around her, causing ash from her smoke to fly everywhere, "he doesn't even share a wall with them, but he still finds something to complain about. Today it was a bike. Yesterday it was that they hadn't watered their flower pot. Last week, it was-"

Harvey's heart skipped a beat.

"I'm sorry, did you say a bike?"

"Yeah," she said, pointing to a tree just behind Harvey. It was gate-lined and nestled between the sidewalk and the street, like most of the trees you found on the Upper East Side. "Some kid had parked his bike there. Mr. Willow wanted Charles to get rid of it, seeing the tree is on his property and all."

"He asked _Mr_. Carrow to dispose of the bike?"

"Yup. Ol' Charlie hefted the thing down the street," she puffed out a cloud of smoke as she spoke, pointing behind her and to the right. "There's a dumpster down the first side street there."

"Thank you," Harvey said with a quick smile, already moving past her. "You've been very helpful."

"Anytime, sugar," she called after him. "I was glad to see it go, personally. It was such an eyesore!"

Harvey nodded to Ray, who briskly caught up to Harvey as he made his way down the sidewalk to the entrance of the alley the woman had pointed out. Sure enough, it was easy to spot the giant dumpster halfway down the passageway. Poking out from the top, in plain sight, was a wheel from a bicycle. _Mike's_ bicycle.

"Shit," Harvey swore as the full implication of what he was seeing hit him.

"This enough for probable cause?" Ray asked from over his shoulder as he jogged toward the bin.

"Yes," Harvey responded grimly as he pulled out his cell phone and dialed.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

Waking up for Mike had not been a slow process, but a jolt into instant consciousness, and ever since, he'd been battling nausea and pain, not to mention a growing sense of unease that refused to fade with each passing moment.

_It's so damn cold._

Mike cursed his skinny frame as he attempted, yet again, to get comfortable on the hard floor, wrapping himself tighter and deeper within his suit jacket. He wished the thin fabric could somehow swallow him whole, engulfing him and saving him from the iciness that seeped into his pores. At this point, he'd gladly take a few blissful moments of stillness, where he didn't find himself shivering from the lack of heat… or from the adrenaline crash.

He couldn't be sure which.

Probably both.

Usually he was adept at keeping track of the passage of time, but Mike had lost all of his senses when he'd woken up and found himself in an unknown place that lacked light, sound, and, most bothersome at the moment, heat. He wasn't sure how much time he'd spent crawling around the floors, forced to find his way with his hands considering his eyes saw nothing but black, black, and more dark black. After figuring he was in a room about six-by-ten feet, he'd tried finding a door or a window or anything that indicated a possible exit, but he came up empty, leaving his mind reeling around the mystery of how he'd gotten in this place at all.

* * *

"_9-1-1, what is your emergency?"_

"I'd like to report a missing person. However, I am quite certain he can be _found_ at 106 East 71st street."

"_I'm sorry sir, but I thought you said he was missing?"_

"He is, but I know where he is."

"_Sir, either he's missing or he isn't. Which is it?"_

* * *

Mike tried shouting for help, of course, but all that earned him was a sore throat. Not to mention that it aggravated his apparent head injury… something else he'd discovered when he'd initially tried to stand. The wave of dizziness, and the instantaneous churn of his stomach, had told him that sitting here was the smarter idea, and he felt slightly better when he stayed on the floor, leaning against a wall, even if his butt was numb from the frigid, unforgiving surface.

Even if he had no idea where _here_ was.

But, wherever _here_ happened to be, it was where he found himself now, shivering within his suit coat and mulling over the what-if's and maybe's that swirled around in his memory. If only he could get his head to _focus_, then maybe he could figure out where he was and, more importantly, how to get out.

_Think Mike. What happened?_

Jerry the butler had brought him a drink. Whiskey. Mike smirked. He remembered the first time he'd tried whiskey. He and Trevor had snuck into the Dean's office late one Saturday evening. There had been a bottle of George Dickel Tennessee Whiskey hidden in his desk drawer. And of course Mike, never one to pass up a dare, toasted the Dean, his beautiful daughter, and downed his first swallow of whiskey. Mike had hard liquor before college, or course… he'd never exactly been a saint. But whiskey, until then, had been off limits.

Whiskey had been served in great quantity the night his parents had been killed…

…and whiskey had been consumed in great quantity by Mr. Fenton…

…and whiskey made Mr. Fenton's blood alcohol level a .15…

…and how did he get so sidetracked? What was he thinking about?

Right. Whiskey. The butler had brought him and Marjorie some whiskey. Whiskey that was infinitely better than Dean Winchester's George Dickel, but probably also infinitely more expensive. And then Mike had passed out, hitting the floor hard, which thoroughly explained his massive headache, though it didn't explain where he was or how he'd gotten here. He off-handedly wondered if Marjorie was okay… she seemed to be the last he could remember. But then again, he couldn't remember much… something which, in itself, was disconcerting. His muddled musings, however, allowed him to reach two conclusions.

One: he probably had a concussion.

Two: he had been drugged.

The butler had drugged him!

But why?

It wasn't Mike's fault that Charles was divorcing the butler's boss and taking all of her money. He had only dropped off the paperwork! What was he supposed to have said? _Don't kill the messenger?_ It wasn't like Mike was even the lead counsel on the case. Why take out his aggression on him? What did he do? Why not Charles? Or Harvey?

* * *

"_Pulaski."_

"Phil, it's Harvey Specter."

"_Harvey! You're calling awfully late."_

"I know. Apologize to Patricia for me. But this is important."

* * *

_What would Harvey do?_

The thought made Mike grin and he closed his eyes against the heavy darkness. Harvey, of course, wouldn't have left the papers behind in the first place. He would have strolled into the Carrow home, wearing his $8,000 suit, said something witty yet somehow intimidating at the same time, and Mr. Carrow would have signed the forms in thirty seconds – flat. Harvey wouldn't have been taken in by Mrs. Carrow's sob story, letting his guard down long enough to be drugged by a vindictive butler…

"_Caring makes you weak!"_

…Or he would have done one of 146 other things. Mike laughed, opening his eyes again, _though really… what difference did it make? He couldn't see anything anyway._ But, what _were_ Harvey's other 146 options for stopping a man who pulled a gun on you? He'd already offered up the prized advice of taking the gun, pulling out a bigger gun, or calling the man's bluff. What else was there? What could Mike have done differently?

Wait, there hadn't been a gun. Mike had been taken down with a glass of whiskey. Mike licked his lips. _Whiskey._ He hated whiskey. All it did was remind him of his parents. His parents and Mr. Fenton.

Mike groaned.

"Didn't I already go over that story?" he angrily asked the darkness. "_Focus, Mike," _he grumbled. "And now I'm talking to myself. Damn concussion…"

He screwed his eyes shut again and sighed, mentally reviewing everything he'd ever read, and subsequently remembered, about concussions. It did nothing to improve his situation, or his mood, but he supposed it helped pass the time between his occasional shouts for help, sore throat be damned. He was cold, tired, hungry, and hurting, but he couldn't just give up that he'd eventually find a way out of this mess.

* * *

"This is highly inappropriate, Chief."

"On the contrary, Mr. Carrow, we have a witness who places Mr. Ross on your property."

"As I already explained to Harvey earlier, his associate was _not_ here."

"That's interesting, Mrs. Carrow, considering that the officers out front have a statement from that same witness which states not only was Mr. Ross seen entering your home, but that your husband disposed of his bicycle some time later."

"Well, I… I, uh…"

* * *

Mike was reminded of when Trevor was in trouble and Mike had thought he could have taken care of the situation all on his own. He hadn't asked Harvey for help... he hadn't even wanted him involved, considering his overt disdain for Mike's oldest friend. But Harvey had swooped in like a superhero and saved the day, and _damn _if Mike wanted nothing more than that right now.

But Harvey wouldn't be expecting him back so soon… would he? How long had he been stuck here? It had only been a few minutes since he'd woken up… right? Or had it been hours? Surely not days, but his memory was still foggy, especially when the rest of his body was trying desperately to fight against the cold and pain he constantly felt.

And, given the fact that all he _could_ focus on was the cold and the pain, Mike thought his body and mind were both failing miserably.

Not to mention there was no way of knowing how long the drug had knocked him out. With any luck, he'd been missing long enough that someone would notice his absence. At the very least, Harvey would notice that his paperwork was missing, and his concern over losing the Carrow case in court would motivate him to track it down.

And hopefully, as a side thought, he'd ask around for Mike, too.

* * *

"I want my lawyer present."

"I _am _your lawyer."

"Shut up, Harvey."

"Listen to me, you son-of-a-"

"I know where Mr. Ross is. But I want full immunity."

"Shut up, Gerald!"

"I will not be put in jail over you and Mr. Carrow's stupid game of blackmail and deceit! Follow me, Mr. Specter."

"This is your fault, Charles."

"My fault, Marjorie?! You're the one who drugged him!"

"If you hadn't slept with the _maid,_ I wouldn't have had to!"

* * *

Mike moaned as he shifted position in yet another vain attempt to wrap his jacket tighter around him. His head continued to bother him, but at least the jackhammering had been reduced to a dull drumming. He was still cold, but surprisingly it wasn't bothering him as much as it was earlier. Part of him felt like he should be worried by that, but the other part told him to shut up and be thankful for the dulling of his senses.

He slouched lower down the wall, his head listing to the right as his eyes stared forward into the blank nothingness. He didn't know how long he sat there and stared – all Mike knew was that he was too tired to do anything else, and his eyes slowly began to drift shut. He figured it was probably a better idea to try to stay awake with a concussion, knowing that if he were to sleep, there was no one to check on him or wake him.

So he fought unconsciousness for as long as he could.

Which, unfortunately, turned out to not be very long at all.

* * *

"Harvey, I don't have a search warrant."

Harvey narrowed his eyes. "You've got to be kidding me, Phil. The man just admitted to kidnapping my associate, locking him inside a wine cellar, and then lying about it. You think I give a damn about a search warrant?"

The Chief Detective sighed and rubbed a hand over his face before finally nodding under Harvey's scrutiny. "Fine," he yielded. "But this makes us even. Got it?"

Harvey smirked. "Understood. Now – push."

"What I don't get is why there is a fridge on top of a wine cellar," the older man grunted as he and Harvey slid the heavy Northland refrigerator. "Seems like poor planning. How are you supposed to get to the wine?"

"Mrs. Carrow hated wine," Gerald stated simply from behind them. "She covered the cellar out of spite for Charles. The cellar is empty, and you'll need a ladder to reach the bottom. I'll fetch one for you."

The butler left the grandiose kitchen just as the large appliance was slid completely away from the wall, revealing a hatch in the floor. Harvey took off his suit jacket and handed it to Pulaski before crouching down. He lifted the steel handle and pulled open the hatch door, revealing nothing but darkness below.

"Mike?"

Nothing.

"Mike!"

Harvey shook his head and rocked back on his heels so he was resting on his knees. "I can't see damn thing."

"Here." Gerald appeared from around the refrigerator with a heavy-duty flashlight, as well as a tall step ladder. Harvey snatched the light and leaned back into the hatch with some trepidation, suddenly seized with worry about what state his young associate would be in. Holding his breath, Harvey shone the beam around the barren cellar, the light finally falling on a lone figure leaning against a far wall.

"Mike!" Harvey shouted again, but Mike didn't stir. Tearing his eyes away, Harvey directed the light to the floor of the cellar, at least fifteen feet below the hatch's opening. "I'm going down there," Harvey announced as he handed the flashlight to Phil. "Toss that down to me when I land."

"But Mr. Specter, the ladder…"

Ignoring the butler, Harvey slid on his knees and turned, lowering himself into the hatch. Hanging by his hands for a split second, he let go and landed solidly in the cold floor. Glancing up, he saw Pulaski's head appear momentarily before the flashlight was dropped down.

"Call the paramedics and lower the ladder so they can get in."

"Will do."

Harvey took a few quick strides and in an instant, he was across the room. Mike was sitting on the floor, slouched against the concrete wall with his legs sprawled out in front of him. His eyes were closed as if he was asleep, but Harvey didn't miss the egg-shaped lump on his forehead or the fine tremors that occasionally shuddered through his body. Harvey bit back the anger over the ordeal the younger man had been forced to go through, and he squatted down so he was eye-level with Mike.

"Mike?" he said as he gently reached out and shook his shoulder.

Mike's brow furrowed and his body twitched slightly, but he didn't open his eyes or respond in any other way. Harvey squeezed his associate's shoulder firmly, shouting out his name this time, and Mike's eyes popped open. He stared a long moment into the darkness just over Harvey's shoulder, until he seemed to finally notice another presence, and his wide, unguarded eyes locked with Harvey's.

"You with me?"

Mike swallowed and blinked slowly. "Harvey?"

"Yeah, Mike. You okay?"

He didn't answer.

"_Hey!"_

Mike flinched. "Stop… yelling at me." He turned his head away from his boss a moment, closing his eyes as he did. "You came."

Harvey waited until Mike turned to look back at him. "You didn't think I would?"

Mike shrugged. They sat in silence for a moment until the flashlight's batteries started to die, causing the light to dim and eventually flicker out. Harvey noticed the change in Mike's demeanor immediately. The younger man tensed, his breathing quickened, and he slammed his eyes shut. Harvey recognized the panic attack for what it was, and after cursing the flashlight, he pulled out his cell phone.

"Mike? Mike, hey, calm down."

Mike's eyes popped open again. It was still dark, but in front of him knelt Harvey, his silhouette barely visible from the light emanating from the smart phone he held in his hand – the screen's soft glow a welcome break from both the previous harsh darkness and subsequent shocking light of the flashlight.

"Jesus, kid, relax."

"I… I thought…"

"What?"

Mike shook his head. "Nothing."

"That was a hell of a _nothing_," Harvey commented, still disturbed by his associate's uneven breathing and glassy eyes. He was about to push further, but a voice in the darkness interrupted him.

"Harvey?"

"Yeah?" he responded, turning away from Mike to gaze into the darkness.

"Paramedics are on their way. Five minutes."

"Good."

"Who are the paramedics for?" Mike asked, and Harvey just barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"You."

Mike nodded, and then asked, "Why?"

This time Harvey did roll his eyes as he lowered himself to the floor next to Mike. "Because you're an idiot," he said in an attempt to bring some lightness into the dark situation. Next to him, he could feel Mike beginning to relax with the return of their usual routine. Their usual banter. Harvey figured Mike deserved a little normalcy right now, after a night that turned out to be anything but normal. There was also the fact that Harvey hoped the repartee would conceal the genuine concern he had felt… was _still feeling_… over Mike's disappearance.

"You tell me that a lot, you know," Mike grumbled. "You feel like your argument will be more solid if you have a medical professional's opinion?"

Harvey sighed. "You were drugged, kid." Mike shrugged as if that piece of information wasn't a big deal.

"Marjorie Carrow admitted to spiking your drink with-"

"Flunitrazepam. I know. But it wasn't Mrs. Carrow, it was the butler."

Harvey cocked a single eyebrow. "Why do you say that?"

"He brought us the drinks," Mike stated matter-of-factly. "And Marjorie wouldn't drug me."

"Oh? You and _Marjorie _are close now?"

"What? No. I just know that she - "

"Admitted to it," Harvey interrupted.

For the first time since Harvey sat down, Mike turned to look at him. He still looked a bit disheveled and glazed-over, but his eyes were clear.

"Really?"

"Really. She was blackmailing her ex-husband… threatening to reveal his numerous affairs to the company's shareholders."

"Oh."

"And don't think I didn't notice that you just admitted to taking Flunitrazepam before."

"I _may_ have had taken it once. A long time ago!" Mike hurried to add at the look on Harvey's face. "What? Trevor and I wanted to do a little… experiment to see if I'd get the anterograde amnesia, or if my brain was immune to it."

"Immune?" Harvey jeered. "And how did that go?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Really," Harvey deadpanned. "Did it _really_ seem like a good idea at the time?"

"…Yes?"

Luckily for Mike, he was spared a lecture as two paramedics lowered themselves down from the ceiling and approached the pair on the floor, careful to aim the high-powered beams from their flashlights away from Mike's face. Harvey stood but hovered close as he carefully watched the men examine Mike. As they began discussing if a trip to the hospital was necessary, Harvey walked back over to where the younger man still sat on the floor, his face etched with pain.

"How'd you find me, anyway?" Mike asked as one of the paramedics pulled him up to his feet. The world immediately tilted, and Harvey grabbed his bicep to help keep him upright.

"The Manhattan Chief of Detectives owed me one."

Mike blinked at him slowly. "You called in a favor? For me?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

Mike's brow furrowed in confusion. "I don't get it. Why did Marjorie do this to me? What was the point?"

Harvey shook his head at the sudden change in topic. "I told you," he started, carefully helping Mike step away from the wall. "The family is devious."

"But she thought hurling me in a hole would solve all of her problems?" Mike asked incredulously.

"It's a wine cellar," Harvey corrected.

"No, wine cellars aren't as cold as this. If wine is exposed to temperatures that are too cold, the wine freezes and expands, causing adverse chemical reactions in the wine that leads to faults in the wine."

Harvey just stared at Mike as he spouted off the random information and shook his head. The sooner the kid got checked out at the hospital, the better.

"Those are fun factoids, Mike, thank you for sharing. As I was saying, Charles went along with Marjorie's plan to _hide_ you, and the papers, until after the court appearance, thus voiding the deal. Charles would still get his divorce, but Marjorie would get to keep all of her money. And no one _hurled_ you in here. Gerald assured me that he lowered you in here gently. Although I do think he's just trying to weasel his way out of an assault charge."

"Stop deflecting!" Mike immediately regretted shouting as the pain level in his head spiked. Again, he swayed where he was standing, and Harvey put a steadying hand on his shoulder. "I just want to know why, you know?"

Harvey understood the need to know why someone could be so cruel. But by the sharp look the paramedic was giving him, Harvey knew that he had to wrap this up and get Mike to relax enough to be guided up the ladder and out of this hole.

"I don't know," he said softly. "Why don't we figure that out later, okay?"

Mike seemed to consider that for a moment before finally nodding. "Okay. After all, tomorrow is another day."

Harvey smiled. "Really? Scarlett O'Hara? That's what you're going with?"

Mike shrugged, and Harvey was reassured by the first genuine smile Mike gave in return. Mike was right… a little corny, but right. Tomorrow _was_ another day. And he would make sure that it was a day that Charles and Marjorie Carrow would regret ever deceiving Harvey Specter.

END.


End file.
